Blog Archives

Older

Remember when we did as we pleased?
Now we’re wrinkled, gray, and diseased
With Rage that crushes any caring heart,
And drops us low to our knees—
There is no succor or understanding
For respite or for relief for any parents’ pleas.
Why do we think ourselves
Into such boxes of darkness
Into that snare of ever wrong turns?
To put down hard roots
Into a never loved land,
Grasping, with our heart that burns—
Another lost kite strung over a high tree,
Another lost thing we swore to safe keep—
Living a clueless life beyond what we hear or see;
As now I lay me down to sleep?

–Amberly Alexis Barnett’s body was found in an undisclosed location early Saturday morning hours after authorities began searching for the 11-year-old, who was last seen at her aunt’s house in Mt. Vernon, Ala.

Another Monday

Blossoming Southern belles—
Plastic as far as you can see.
Sooner or later the truth
Makes itself plain,
More or less eventually.

Travel over the old road,
Hope against hope for happiness new,
But find you’ve returned home
Spitting at the gods—
Chagrined through and through.

Gambling for a maybe,
Hopelessly hoping we young
At heart, we’re quite hopeful.
Why climb the campanile
Seeking a bell yet unrung?

Two storms amangling,
A third fluffs in the wings.
Furbabies tied to trees;
O soft fear strangles us all.
How Stupidity wretchedly stings!

Another Monday looms,
We will all try to do our best.
Be happy and healthy,
Be safe and remain free.
In the end we will all pass this Zen test.

Wrong-Sized Glass

Sorry, I know it’s the wrong-sized glass
but it is a pretty nice red.
we can crack open this bottle
or go for walk instead.
usually just down to the gulch,
it matters not how far,
or maybe off to the zoo
we can take my old car.
I just want to spend some time
and get to know you better,
even though my stupid old cat
won’t want to meet your setter.

So, I’ll put the merlot up,
since you’ve turned me down.
I really wish for you the best
and hope to see you around town.
the old poet saved the page
and powered off his computer;
tomorrow to try again
imaging the life of a suitor—
heartbreak, in crisp 64 RAM,
meets: “I yam what I yam!”